In Stitches
by Potions Student
Summary: Sara finally gets a hobby and learns a couple lessons along the way. A hint of GSR, a slightly Christmasy ending, and some seriousness amongst the fluff. Complete.
1. Knit

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own CSI, the characters, etc., etc. All that is owned by CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Jerry Bruckheimer and Anthony Zuicker. Trust me, if I did own it, I'd be sipping MaiTais in Bermuda, not writing fanfic on an ancient laptop.

**In Stitches  
**by Karen S. (aka "Potions Student")

**Part 1: Knit**

Sara Sidle sat in the break room at the lab, wondering how much force it would take to push a knitting needle far enough through someone's eye socket to reach the brain. Specifically, how much force it would take her to shove the offending object into her PEAP counsellor's brain.

Sighing, she held up the crooked, holey, 6-inch piece of knitting she'd spent the last couple days working on. It looked like an army of moths had attacked it, as though she'd used it for target practice at the LVMPD shooting range.

Actually, right now that didn't sound like such a bad idea.

In a decidedly uncreative move, her PEAP counsellor had suggested she get a hobby. It wasn't anything new, Grissom had told her as much on a couple occasions. Her counsellor had specifically suggested something which would relieve stress, however. Sara had dismissed meditation and yoga as too flaky-sounding--the kind of things her ex-hippie mother had undoubtedly tried at some point, then abandoned when some new fad came along. Finally, she had given in on the suggestion of knitting. At the very least, it didn't sound like something her mother would do. Her mom had been one of those 70's feminists that declared anything even vaguely domestic as "the symbols of women's slavery". For her part, Sara didn't care about the sexual politics of it. She just wanted to get her PEAP counsellor (not to mention Grissom) off her back. Any time he mentioned her working too hard she could just wave her knitting in front of his face like a white flag in front of a charging army. "See? I have a hobby! Now leave me alone."

So the previous weekend, she had driven to one of the yarn stores listed in the phone book, where the proprietor had sold her a couple balls of the thickest yarn she'd ever seen, as well as a pair of knitting needles that could have doubled as broomsticks in a pinch. Sara had also bought a booklet with instructions, and the store owner--a rather friendly 50-something woman--had showed her how to cast on (which she now only vaguely remembered) and how to do the knit stitch.

She'd done two rows under the store owner's watchful eye, then had gone home. At that point, she found out that apparently the drive home had erased any memory she might have had about how to do the knit stitch. She hadn't given up; far from it. She wasn't about to let two pointy, plastic rods and a mass of oversized string defeat her. She'd struggled on, referring to the booklet and trying to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do from that.

So far it looked like the needles and yarn had won the first battle. Which was how she'd ended up in the break room during her lunch hour, cursing steadily at the ratty piece of knitting she'd managed to make. Those first two, perfect, rows were laughing at her, she was sure of it.

She was so intent on making her second charge against her enemy that she didn't notice that someone else had entered the room for their lunch break until finally she slammed the needles and yarn to the table with a roar of frustration and saw Grissom staring at her curiously over his crossword puzzle. Sara gave him a momentary glare, then stood up and stomped over to the coffeepot, to get herself another cup. She was definitely going to need more caffeine if she was going to beat this...this...temperamental textile.

She fixed herself a mug of dark, sweet coffee and turned around to face her enemy again, only to find the yarn and needles in Grissom's hands. He was looking at it curiously, the same way he looked at every puzzle, like he was gathering evidence to figure it out. She watched, frozen, as he picked up a needle in each hand, and slowly began knitting backwards. She was just about to crow at him that he was doing it in the wrong direction when she noticed he was actually carefully pulling out the stitches she'd done on that row.

He stopped near the beginning, where a large hole had formed, looking at it carefully. Then his face brightened, obviously having figured out the puzzle. "Ah. See here? You wrapped the yarn around the right-hand needle in between the stitches, which made this hole. It's called a yarnover." He pointed to a crooked loop of yarn on the needles, and when she took a position just behind his shoulder, she could see where it had wrapped around in between the third and fourth stitches. Grissom pulled the fourth stitch out, then looked at the knitting with his thinking face again. After a moment, he twirled the yarn around his index finger and slowly stuck the right needle through the stitch on the left needle, wrapped the yarn counterclockwise around the right needle, then pulled the new stitch through the old one, sliding the old one off the left needle. He repeated the movement, a little faster this time, and continued making new stitches until he hit the end of the row. Once he reached the end, he switched the right needle into his left hand and started knitting again, faster this time, his movements smooth and coordinated.

Sara watched, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. She wasn't sure whether she was surprised that _he_ of all people knew how to knit, or incredibly pissed off that he could just figure it out when she was fighting every stitch. At the moment, a 30/70 split seemed likely. "Are you going to tell me how you know how to knit?" she asked incredulously.

Grissom suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and appeared a little self-conscious; whether because he was knitting or because he'd hijacked her project, she wasn't sure. "No," he said, flatly. He put the knitting back down on the table, and looked like he was about to make a break for the exit, doubtless retreating back to his office. Sara wasn't about to let him get away that easily.

"Grissom, you are _not_ going to walk out of here without telling me this." She stood by the door, blocking his path, her arms folded across her chest.

Grissom sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. "I got sick the summer I was ten and couldn't read because it would give me headaches, and my mother wouldn't let me watch TV all day. I was driving her up the wall because I couldn't play baseball, so she taught me to knit, to keep me busy. Will that do?"

Sara gaped at him. "And you still remember how to do this?" How in the hell did he _remember_ all this stuff?

He shrugged, looking at her innocently. "It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, your hands remember." With that, he sidestepped around her, walking quickly out of the break room. Sara stood there for a moment, staring at her piece of knitting, the row and a half of perfect stitches Grissom had done joining in with her first couple rows in mocking her.

Sitting down once more, she picked up the needles again and slowly mimicked the movements Grissom had made; a perfect, if loose, stitch popping off the end of the needle once she'd completed the movements. Her mouth set in a hard line, she made her counterattack, going onto the next stitch, then the next. If _Grissom_ could do it, then she sure as hell wasn't about to ask for a ceasefire any time soon.


	2. Purl

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own CSI, the characters, etc., etc. All that is owned by CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Jerry Bruckheimer and Anthony Zuicker. Trust me, if I did own it, I'd be sipping MaiTais in Bermuda, not writing fanfic on an ancient laptop.

**Part 2: Purl**

There were already a few people there by the time Sara arrived, clutching her bag to her chest as though it contained jewels, too precious to part with. In a way the item in the bag was more precious than jewels, even; too much hard work, frustration and sweat had gone into it to lose it now.

The others greeted her warmly, surrounding her with the acceptance and easy friendship she had come to expect at these get-togethers. As she sat in her usual chair, she was rather amazed at it, really. She'd never really gone out of her way to become friends with the others, but somehow she had been woven into the group. There were people she couldn't stand, of course, but there were more that she liked. A couple were judgemental, but most were open, accepting. She hadn't shared any of her secrets with them, but she had the feeling she could, if she ever wanted to.

Taking off her coat and hanging it on the back of her chair, she opened her canvas tote bag--a _proper_ bag now, she thought, instead of the shopping bags she'd used previously--and pulled out the sum of her labours: a three-feet-long, charcoal-grey scarf. This was its first appearance at the "Desert Purls" Stitch-'n-Bitch, though one of those present had seen it before, as she'd helped in getting it started. Sara had been reluctant to show anyone her work until she knew it was perfect, which had taken no little amount of time.

Even she couldn't explain why she stuck with it. She'd never expected to actually enjoy something so...domestic. And so much of it wasn't enjoyable--dropping yet another stitch, trying to figure out what she she was supposed to do next, ripping everything out ten times as she made mistake after mistake. But sometimes she noticed she didn't think about things while she concentated on the needles in her hands. Disagreements with co-workers, the frustrations of a case... All of it kind of melted away, and there were moments--rare ones at this point, but moments--where her mind just emptied of all thought and she zoned out, a blissful feeling while it lasted. She didn't come home and grab a beer from the fridge, she sat on the couch and took out her knitting. She actually took breaks at work, exchanging the riddle of a case for the riddle of a row of stitches. Something kept her at it, her usual determination not to fail at whatever she tried her hand at, maybe. Or maybe, she thought, it was just another thing to become obsessive about.

Somehow typically of her, when faced with the decision of what to do after the usual starter projects, she'd gone for something that was miles ahead of her skill level: the difference between crawling and running. She'd looked through hundreds of patterns, trying to find the right thing, and had finally come into Desert Purls with a book in her hands, opening it to a scarf pattern which used a braided cable up the middle of the scarf, four columns of stitches that wove in and out, twining around each other. "I want to do this next," she'd said in a tone that indicated she'd brook no argument. It was the same kind of determination that had brought her this far: she _would_ learn to do this, no matter how difficult.

Sara had seen the look of doubt on the face of Debbie Marsden, owner of the store, but Deb hadn't argued, had simply started to show her how to move stitches around each other with a cable needle, how to read directions from a chart.

Now, two months later, Sara had finally decided it was good enough to show the others. She'd never been good at failure; bringing an object with a single mistake in it was not an option, and there had been many mistakes. However, she had dutifully ripped out every mis-crossed stitch, every knit that should have been a purl and vice versa.

As she pulled the scarf out of its bag, heads swivelled in her direction at the prospect of something new. Hands gnarled with arthritis and soft with youth reached out to touch the yarn, to trace the pattern of the cables with their fingers. Sara was finding that knitters were very tactile people. When faced with something new, they wanted to touch, feel, examine carefully. To turn it over and look at every side. To admire its beauty, or to find out all its mysteries. To look at something small, a single element, and visualise the whole. It was, she thought, not unlike her work. Which was odd, really, as this was supposed to be something she did to get away from work, to have something outside work to fill up her time.

"Wow. That looks hard," said Helen, a recent arrival; a woman in her forties who was working on her fifth fuzzy scarf.

"It just takes patience," piped up one of the younger women, Kerri. She was a college student, cranking out sweaters at the rate of about one for every two exams.

Sara nodded, she'd learned this lesson--well, partially at least. "You just have to look at what you're doing and take it slowly."

"This cable-two-back looks really loose," the other college student, Adrienne, piped up. She pointed at a spot where two columns crossed over each other, about ten inches from the beginning of the scarf. Sara squeezed her jaws shut to keep from making a retort; she still didn't like that spot. One day she'd decided that it might be nice to have a drink, or two, after work (she'd hardly had any recently, after all, she was being very good, she deserved it), and then decided she'd pick up her knitting. Knitting and drinking didn't mix, and when she'd woken for work that evening, the sight of what she'd done to the scarf in those moments of tipsy dedication had been worse than the hangover.

"It'll come out in the blocking," Deb said, hurrying past with a bag of yarn, shooting Sara a smile. The unofficial peacekeeper of the bunch, she was used to keeping Sara and Adrienne on speaking terms.

"Is it a gift for someone?" Daniel, one of the two male members of the group asked, quickly.

"It better not be for a boyfriend." This from Joyce, the member who'd been knitting for at least five decades.

"Why not?" Kerri asked.

"It's the sweater curse; though it applies to more than just sweaters. Knit for a man who hasn't given you a ring, and he never will," Joyce replied.

"That's crap," Adrienne said.

"It's true. Generations of knitters have noticed the exact same thing. Probably has something to do with the amount of time and effort hinting at one partner being more committed to the relationship, or the hint of domesticity," Joyce said, flatly.

"It's not for a boyfriend," Sara said, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. "It's for a...friend. Just a friend."

"Well whoever this 'just a friend' is, he's a lucky guy. It's a pretty scarf," Deb said, fanning a few magazines out on the table, "Now who wants to see some of the new yarns I got in yesterday? Someone was in this morning, and bought a couple balls of this one already." Deb placed a bowl of yarn on the table, picking up a ball of something slightly fuzzy, in muted blues and greens.

The eyes turned from Sara, something for which she was grateful. Twirling her cable needle in her fingers, she looked at the scarf. A gift for a friend--that was all. A relationship that hadn't ever started couldn't be any more cursed, could it? Just a gift, a sign of friendship, of gratitude. She didn't want anything more than that--not anymore. Ever since she'd realized it was never going to happen, she'd concentrated on what was there, rather than what wasn't.

She shook off the thought, stabbing her needle through the first stitch of the row, turning her attention to the task at hand. One stitch at a time, one row at a time, one day at a time, one case at a time. Eventually she'd have something to show for it; maybe not now, but someday. Someday, she'd look at all the work she'd done and see the beautiful scarf, instead of past mistakes and opportunities missed.


	3. Knit Two Together

****

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own CSI, the characters, etc., etc. All that is owned by CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Jerry Bruckheimer and Anthony Zuicker. Trust me, if I did own it, I'd be sipping MaiTais in Bermuda, not writing fanfic on an ancient laptop.

**Part 3: Knit Two Together**

Christmas at the Las Vegas Crime Lab was, for the most part, like any other day. Their work couldn't stop for the holidays, so there was less pre-holiday rush, and less overt celebration. Decorations were limited to the break room. The main difference was the simple lack of staff. While the lab wasn't necessarily a noisy place, on Christmas, there was a decided hush about the place.

While Christmas night could seem like any other shift, there were small differences. Grissom always treated those working the night shift to dinner at a fairly nice restauraunt after shift, an invitation which included the lab techs as well as the CSIs. There was also some informal gift-giving. Generally people would place gifts on or under the small Christmas tree in the break room a few days before the holiday, and people could collect and open their gifts however they saw fit--either in the privacy of their own home, or in the public arena of the break room.

Sara arrived at work on the 25th an hour before start of shift, a package clutched in her hands. As she entered the hallways of the lab, she looked nervously around her, keeping an eye out. She didn't want the gift's recipient to catch her before she could place the gift where no one but him would find it.

She was lucky. Grissom's office was dark; obviously, he hadn't arrived for work yet. Quickly, she crept into his office and placed the parcel on his desk then hurried out, closing the door behind her. The coast was clear; apparently no one had seen her nip into his office. She hurried back to the locker room, ready to shed her coat and get down to work for the night.

As she opened her locker, she spotted something on the top shelf: a package, wrapped with mathematical precision in red tissue paper. She stopped for a moment, her coat half off, before she finished shedding her coat and grabbed the package. It was squashy, soft, with rounded edges. Not a book, then.

There was no tag, nothing identifying the giver. Taking a quick look around, she gently opened the tissue paper, taking care not to rip it. It was a challenge she'd enjoyed since she was a child--like trying to peel an apple in one long coil. She teased back the folds of tissue paper, slowly revealing its contents.

Folded inside the tissue paper was a long, slightly fuzzy scarf. Pulling it out, she could see it had been knitted in an undulating pattern of ridges and decorative eyelets, like waves on the shore. Looking at it carefully, she could see that pairs of stitches had been knitted together in between each eyelet, pulling the row into a scallop instead of a straight line. The yarn looked like one she had seen at Desert Purls: a watercolour blue, green and grey, the wool and mohair unbelieveably soft to the touch.

There was no tag inside, but she didn't need one now. There was, after all, only one person she knew of that knew how to knit. He must have worked on it at home, naturally never letting anyone else know that he knew how to do such a thing. She could hardly imagine what it must have looked like: Grissom sitting on his couch, watching baseball or some documentary on the Discovery Channel, delicate yarn and needles manipulated in an easy rhythm by his large hands. Making something just for her. She smiled and buried her face in the scarf, feeling the fibers tickle her skin.

She was sitting in the break room a half-hour later, reading a forensic journal when Grissom stuck his head in the room. "419 on Industrial. Get your stuff--I'm driving," he said, before disappearing again. Sara hurried to her locker, donning her coat and new scarf and grabbing her field kit.

Grissom met her just outside the main doors, directing them to his Denali without a word. As they passed under a lamppost, Sara looked over at him and saw a soft, charcoal-grey scarf peeping out from under his coat collar, one curve of a cable visible. Grissom glanced over at her, looked down at the scarf around her neck, and then looked up at her, a smile crossing his features. She smiled back, a coded response that neither needed to translate aloud.

The scarves said as much about their creators as their recipients, she thought, as she turned her attention back to the parking lot. Herself, who had made a wrong crossover somewhere, and who was now ripping back to that point, trying to start the pattern over smoothly again. And though no one else would notice, she would always see the spot where she had messed up and had to fix things. Grissom, who was so brilliant about some things but so stupid about others; who usually seemed so pulled together, yet, on closer inspection, was so full of holes.

They reached his SUV, and he was just climbing in the driver's seat when she turned to him, the words finding their way out of her mouth of their own volition. "Oh, by the way, Merry Christmas, Grissom."

He turned to her as he pulled on his seat belt, giving her another one of those too-rare but brilliant smiles. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Sara." They shared a moment of peaceful silence, in which she thought that perhaps they hadn't lost as much of their friendship as she'd once thought. After a moment, Grissom started the car and they headed off to their crime scene, the beginning of just another shift.


End file.
